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Anthony put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “That, if you don’t heed Coach’s wisdom, I’m going to knock your teeth out.”
Barron Douglas settled his hands on his hips. “And I’ll put you in traction.”
Great. A brawl on the court was just what he needed to catapult this practice right into the crapper.
“That’s it. Practice is over. Hit the showers.” DeMarcus watched the players walk toward the locker room. Jamal lagged behind.
“Thirty minutes left.” Oscar’s observation was less than helpful.
DeMarcus rubbed the back of his neck. “They wouldn’t have gone any better than the first ninety minutes.”
The older man moved to stand beside him. “Jamal’s got flash.”
DeMarcus stared toward the locker room. How would he take this team to the play-offs? “But?”
“He’s immature.”
DeMarcus couldn’t argue with that. “I was hoping he’d grow up. But we’re eighteen weeks and fifty-six games into the season, and I’m not seeing any improvement.”
“Bench Jamal, start Rick.” Oscar was persistent.
DeMarcus faced the assistant coach. The knots in his neck and shoulders remained. “Rick plays well in practice. But during a real game, he hesitates to take the shot. Why?”
Oscar shrugged. “Ask him.”
“I’m asking you. Why are you so sure Rick gives us a better chance of getting into the play-offs?”
Oscar’s tall, bulky body tensed. “I see what you can’t.”
“Which is?”
“Rick puts the team above himself. Whether he’s sitting or starting, he’ll do whatever it takes to help the team win. We were winning before you benched him.” Oscar jerked a thumb toward the lockers. “But when that Air Jordan wannabe gets the ball, it becomes the Jamal Ward show. He’ll make himself look good, even if it jeopardizes the team.”
“I don’t know what Rick is afraid of, but his fear is causing him to hesitate in real-game situations. I can’t risk him freezing up and costing us the win.”
Oscar gave him a scornful look. “Sometimes you have to risk losing if you want to win.”
DeMarcus watched Oscar leave the court. The assistant coach was angry. Well, so was he. Oscar was convinced he was right. DeMarcus was just as certain he was wrong. Oscar was passionate about his position, though. DeMarcus could tell because never before had the assistant coach strung together so many words when speaking to him.
The knock on his office door Wednesday afternoon interrupted DeMarcus’s review of the Washington Wizards’ scouting report. Andrea Benson of the New York Sports waited in his doorway.
He stood and checked his watch. It was almost four o’clock. “Andrea, did we have a meeting?”
The reporter strode toward his desk. The wide-legged pants of her dark green suit billowed like a skirt around her legs. “No, Coach Guinn, we didn’t.”
His frown cleared as he took the hand she offered. “Call me Marc. I’m sorry. I don’t have time for an inter view right now. I have to prepare for Friday’s game in D.C.”
“I know. But this is very important. I have three questions that will take only a few minutes of your time.”
DeMarcus released her hand and swallowed a sigh. Andrea’s dark eyes were troubled. His gaze dipped to her choke hold on the brown strap of her huge purse. What was on the reporter’s mind? “How can I help you?”
“Thank you.” Andrea lowered herself to the guest chair in front of DeMarcus’s desk and waited for him to reclaim his seat. “Coach Guinn—Marc—are you addicted to cocaine?”
18
“What?” DeMarcus barely heard himself above the blood rushing through his ears.
Andrea settled back into the black cushioned visitor’s chair. Her tension seemed to have transferred to him. “I didn’t think so.”
